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There are very few things about Francis that seriously irritate you. Talking about death after making love is one of them.
Sometimes he forgets to take off his shoes after working in the garden—
[last year your joint efforts resulted in so many fresh vegetables and legumes that you ended up selling them on the market in the nearest small town. in another life, you might have thought about preserving them but neither you nor Francis can eat canned food anymore.]
—and change into house slippers, resulting in dirt being brought inside the house, staining the floor and carpets. It’s forgivable. A little extra sweeping and mopping never hurt you.
He’s still in the process of figuring out the little tricks and secrets of the culinary arts, so when on one of those occasions he decides to surprise you with luncheon [he told you he would gladly make you breakfast if given the opportunity, it’s just that you’re the one who rises earlier] or dinner, the slice of toast may be burnt on the sides, or the meat is a little overcooked and the spices are more in dissonance than harmony with each other. Still, you fail to find it in yourself to care. How could you? You’re more of a steward than a cook, leaving no room or right for judgement. And, above all, in your humble opinion, every single bite of food that is his handiwork rivals the fancy feasts of the upper crust simply because it’s Francis who made it.
You’re lenient with him, in short. To a great extent. Although he owns the property you play the role of the master of the house, and you make sure you do it impeccably; at least Francis is always keen to reassure you that you do. In tune—
[and in love. oh, sweet heavens, so much in love]
—with each other, you live, and when you argue once in a blue moon, it resembles an old married couple’s bickering.
Just before today, you could not recall an occasion when you felt genuine resentment towards Francis. There must be a first time for everything, as it seems.
He had some kind of bureaucratic business in town to attend to, so after a hearty breakfast, he kissed you on the forehead, asked you not to overexert yourself, then left. True to his promise about being back by nightfall at the latest, he was home by the time you took the pear-and-apple pie he loves so much out of the oven mid-afternoon.
In the stead of seating himself for an early dinner, Francis seduced you into bed with the sweetest kisses on your neck, where he knows very well you’re the most sensitive, and a large hand groping your arse [an action that causes you great pleasure, as you have once admitted it to Francis with a blush on your cheeks] while grinding into you with enough fervour for one to believe it’s been months since he has last had you, not just a single day.
You sucked him off while lying on your belly between his thighs—
[strong, strewn with the loveliest freckles you’ve ever laid eyes on]
—swallowing every precious drop of his seed, moaning utterly unashamed like the little minx [his words, not yours] you are when it flooded your tongue, for you know how much Francis loves it when you’re loud.
He did not disdain to kick up a fuss about not being able to bugger you now that he’d spent, so you kindly reminded him with an admittedly guileful grin that he remains to have ten well-functioning fingers if only he’d be courteous enough to use them on you. This subtle remark earned you not only a new title [rascal, of all things], one you decided to wear with pride, but also an orgasm strong enough to make you swoon.
[There’s no other explanation for seeing the aurora borealis behind your closed eyelids.]
The Arctic left you with another peculiar parting gift apart from the grey strands in your hair: you’re unbearably cold after you spend. It has nothing to do with the season or with the weather, you shiver under the thickest duvet in winter just as much as you do while bathing in summer sunshine. The underlying cause, you suppose, is rooted deeper than a physical level. Also, it’s not like your condition is short of its silver lining. Francis’s hugs are the fiercest at times like this, and you revel in skin-to-skin contact. The tam-tam of his heartbeats has long since been your favourite lullaby.
What a pity that the feeling of serenity is robbed from you with one single sentence.
“I’m not quite sure how to phrase this properly so excuse me if it comes out as blunt, but I’ve made a will today,” Francis says, tone infuriatingly casual, as if he was bringing up an innocent everyday topic. Even more infuriating is the fact that he does this with his hand resting on your bum, fingers circling your rim where it’s still loose from your previous actions, the scent of lavender-infused oil you keep for bedroom-related purposes lingering in the ear. You can’t thank yourself enough for having the forethought of cleaning yourself up as soon as your fingertips ceased to tingle. “I’m leaving the cottage and my assets to you. What is mine is yours, you know this already, and now there’s a piece of paper to ensure it’ll stay so even when I’m gone.”
[It would be insufferably awkward to soil your smalls with the oil while dressing hastily.]
You’ve been punched before, straight in the face when you were but a midshipman, wet behind the ears, and you’re not a stranger to the burn of a slap on your cheek either. Still, neither of them made you want to flee the place the way Francis’s words do. What hurts you the most is not the fact that he’s arranged something as momentous as a will behind your back—
[it stings, there’s no point in denying it. makes you feel like you’re not viewed as an equal but as a kept thing, a substitute for the wife you know he once wanted to have. the thought leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.]
—but the matter in question itself and what lies behind it: mortality.
Francis’s age.
If your contentment, the gratification of lying together in bed with Francis was the nigh sky’s brightest celestial body, overshining even the Eveningstar herself, you’ve just witnessed its light going out.
And now you’re left in darkness.
“I cannot have this conversation right now,” you manage. It is rare to find yourself in a situation you have difficulty handling. You have experienced malice directed against you, unfairness, accusations, danger. Those, although far from optimal, are mostly fine. Bearable, even, whereas this talk of death and belongings and testaments makes you want to hide away, blind and deaf to the world, in a place where the natural order of things does not include the possibility of Francis dying. Where that sword of Damocles does not hang over your head.
You slip out of his embrace without warning. It stuns him so he temporarily forgets how to move, and by the time he recovers from the surprise you’re already in your shirtsleeves. Nearly a decade of expertise in stewardship and the quick fingers that come with the profession are working in your favour.
“Thomas.”
Francis calls your name, voice shaky at the second syllable, but does not approach you to hold you back, for which you’re grateful.
“Dinner is ready, you just need to heat it up a little,” you inform him. “Don’t wait for me, I’ll be outside for a while. Taking a walk, maybe.”
“I was hoping we could eat together.”
He sounds defeated.
“Somehow I find myself having lost my appetite.”
You don’t wait for his answer, but the moment you walk through the front door, all the fighting leaves your body at once.
Where on earth were you thinking of going? This is your home, this little cottage hidden away in Hertfordshire, the reaping fruit of your and Francis’s labour; this is your safe haven. The kitchen and the pantry: your domain. The sitting room: conversations bloom there like wildflowers in spring in the right company. The bedroom: a place of worship for you and Francis only. After years of dropping and whirling and hurting, you finally belong. Everything keeps you here; not because you’re held back by force but because you chose this place, this place to take root with the man you want to spend the rest of your days with.
You are not going to walk out on Francis. Surely, he must have had a reason to do what he did and the least you can do is try to understand it.
Slowly, you sink down onto the bench right on the entrance door’s left. You spent days nagging Francis into refurbishing it—
[he said, “this is your home, Thomas, you do as you please”, so you smiled down at him with a hint of teeth as you raked his side with your nails, a playful scratch, your knees framing his naked thighs, asking “would you truly leave all the hard work to your husband without offering a helping hand?” at that moment you knew he would let you have your way, even though he spent an awful lot of time staring at your backside in your trousers. not that you minded, of course.]
—mentally thanking yourself for your farsightedness: the bench provides both comfort and a lovely view of the garden. Last week you planted the hyacinth- and tulip bulbs, the latter coming from the Netherlands, a gift from Mr. Bridgens and Mr. Peglar on their latest visit, and the strawberry seedlings. You already anticipate with great ardour the arrival of summer next year, when you can pick the fresh berries straight from the vine, dip them in whipped cream and feed them to Francis by hand. The lavender and sage are trimmed back, the lemongrass and mint are split and re-planted in their new place. Tiresome as the work was, the resulting orderliness is nothing if not rewarding.
You’ve gotten so absorbed in your thoughts you don’t even hear footsteps approaching until Francis enters your field of vision, dressed in casual home wear, a knitted sweater of yours in hand.
“So here you are,” he sighs, the relief in his voice loud and clear. “I feared you have left for town.”
You answer with a frown; he reads you like an open book. “I almost have,” you admit, “but that would be childish and there’s no other place I’d rather be than here.”
“Even when you’re angry with me?”
“I’m not angry, just confused and a little hurt. Pass me my jersey, please.”
“There you go. May I sit with you?” Nodding, you put on the navy-blue garment and make room for Francis on the bench so you’re both comfortable. Your thighs are touching. The weather isn’t particularly nice but it’s not that cold either, yet you immediately feel better with another layer of clothing on your person. “Thank you, love.”
Silences with Francis are usually easy. Pleasant, even. This time, it weighs down on and crushes you the same way the ice was smashing Erebus and Terror in the Arctic.
[sometimes you can’t help but wonder if they’re still trapped or sank to the bottom of the sea. if they’ll ever be discovered.]
“Is there something I should be aware of and you’re not telling me?”
The question seems to catch Francis off guard. “Come again?”
“Are you ill, Francis?”
His frequent correspondence with Doctor Goodsir, the only medic he trusts, is no secret to you; partly because you don’t keep secrets from each other as a rule [or so you thought] but also for the fact that you also keep in touch with the doctor, especially since he’s been sharing his home with Mr. Collins. However, you never peek into the letters that are sent directly to him. You respect him too much to stoop that low.
It means that Francis could have noticed signs of malady on himself weeks, months earlier, asking Goodsir how much time he has left, with you none the wiser.
Judging by the eagerness with which he turns to you and takes your hands into his he must have understood your train of thought. “No! No, it’s not about that… good heavens, no… Thomas. A rún mo chroí. I’m not sick, not in the least. Thanks to you, it’s quite the opposite in fact—
You don’t snap at him although it takes a significant amount of your self-discipline. “Then why did you make a will now? “Why without talking it over together at first? I’ve been under the impression that you trust me.”
“I do trust you! It is the passing of years that worries me, and the thought of leaving you behind on this earth.”
Cat’s out of the bag, you think. About time.
Lifting your hand, you cradle his face the same way he caresses you when you’re in distress. He leans into your touch, kisses the center of your palm. Your thumb wanders over wrinkles and pockmarks, the rough surface of his skin. Imperfections he hates; imperfections you adore.
“You still have decades to live,” you tell him slowly, “as you surely know that already. Think about Sir James Ross or Mr. Bridgens, aren’t both of them hale and hearty in their fifties? You need not to worry.”
Francis averts his gaze, lowering your hand from your face with the utmost gentleness, only to intertwine your fingers in his lap. “It is not my life I’m concerned about, as I’ve said,” he speaks softly, “but yours, should I pass away before it’s your time.”
You nod, though there are still a few details you do not understand. “What’s brought this on?”
You listen attentively as he recalls the conversation he overheard in the town hall while waiting for his solicitor to arrive at their previously agreed-upon appointment. It was two elderly ladies, apparently childhood friends, discussing the piteous situation a mutual acquaintance of theirs had found herself in. The woman in question got married to a man with a considerable fortune old enough to be her father whilst she hasn’t even lived twenty-four summers and is of much humbler birth. Contrary to what the wicked tongues claimed, their matrimony was a love match of the truest kind, although short-lived because of the husband’s sudden demise. He was a watchmaker, following the family tradition, but the wife knew little to nothing about watches or trade. After the funeral, a bunch of never-seen relatives showed up with a claim on the shop, saying it’s in their right to preserve their forefathers’ legacy by taking over the workshop as well as the living quarters above it, and when the widow refused, they used their influence in court to appropriate the property and get rid of the wife. In the end, as there was no one she could turn to for guidance and help, she had no other choice than to return to her family, left with nothing but a fraction of the money she was entitled to.
“If those people managed to do this to the wife, a defenceless woman,” Francis continues, clutching your hands, “I have every reason to believe and fear it can happen to you, too, and in our case, there is no marriage certificate to provide you with at least a semblance of protection. I need you to understand. I made that will to ensure your safety and comfort. For the rest of your life, if you accept it.”
“But why had it to be so sudden?” You fancy yourself as someone perceptive, armed with enough common sense to compensate for your meagre formal education, but this is simply beyond you. “Why didn’t you come home to me to talk it through first? We have time.”
Francis kisses your crown, knowing very well how much you like this little gesture of affection. “The thing is, my love, that we haven’t. I’ve been a fool for not acting earlier. What a danger I brought upon you with my negligence! Just think of it. I’m roughly the same age as the husband in that anecdote when he passed away.”
“You seem quite certain that of the two of us, it is you who’s going to die first.”
“I’m twenty-two years your senior.”
You scoot away only to sink to your knees in front of him, between his legs, your head tilted to the side, resting against the inner side of one strong thigh. “Stewards often die before their captain,” you remind him softly.
Pain flashes across Francis’s face as his hand reaches down, brushing your unruly forelock back with his fingers. “You’re no longer a servant of mine. Do not, and I mean this very seriously, do not think of yourself as any less than my most beloved. My life companion.” He takes a deep breath and you’ve been with him for long enough to know he’s choosing his words carefully when he speaks next. “I didn’t know pain, real pain, until I sat at your bedside in that sick tent as a powerless witness of scurvy, starvation and poisoning taking you away from me. I never want you to be cold again, and neither can I bear the thought of you going hungry, of needing food or shelter and having none, of wishing for anything.” His voice falters, making your heart clench. “My darling. Won’t you allow your old lover to take care of you from the grave?”
A sound more miserable has surely never left your mouth than the whimper you let out before you could take a hold on yourself. You feel your eyes brimming with tears and all of a sudden, you’re so terribly cold you fear you’ve ended up back in King William Land’s freezing abyss—
[let him be safe, please, let him survive, let Francis outlive you]
—until Francis hoists you up into his lap [he does not make you straddle him for he knows the hard wooden surface of the bench would hurt your knees and he’s mindful of all your injuries, past and present included], holding you impossibly tight as you lean into him, melt into him, into his warmth, until you share the same air and become each other’s anchor.
Take care of me by being alive, you want to tell him. Take care of me by letting me follow you wherever you go. If you must die, let me die with you.
The latter is definitely going to happen one way or another; you’ve planned it out in detail. All you need is a gun and some bravery. The first can be found in the bedside dresser’s bottommost drawer. The latter will come naturally.
You don’t say a word to him about any of this, of course, you cannot, because he would never let you carry out your plan or forgive you should you still choose to do so, but the thing is: there’s no place for you in a world where Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier’s heart does not beat in unison with yours.
Soon, as the early autumn evening turns cooler than it is to your liking, you will get back inside the house. There will be apologies for sure. You will tell Francis you’re sorry for reacting the way you did, for storming off and being mean to him. Francis will not ask for your forgiveness for leaving his fortune to you but for having upset you with its abruptness.
You will eat dinner in silence and Francis will compliment you on the food as he always does. You will do the dishes while he draws himself a bath, and when you’re done, you’ll help him undress and into the tub, massaging the seemingly ever-present tension out of his shoulders as he’s soaking until he’s soft and mellow under your fingers. He will probably try to coax you into joining him in the water and you’ll gently decline the offer, waiting for your turn instead. You love having him at ease. You love having him. You love him.
Perhaps this will be one of those nights when you ask Francis if you could forgo nightshirts and sleep naked instead, perhaps not. Perhaps you will keep vigil by his side long after he has fallen asleep, counting the second between each of his breaths, perhaps you will enter slumberland the moment your head hits the pillow and Francis curls up against you from behind.
Come what may, he will be the first thing you see in the morning.